


Be My TV

by Pluppelina



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, but not THAT explicit sex, tagged for sex, with a little twist at the very end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-21
Updated: 2012-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-16 18:31:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pluppelina/pseuds/Pluppelina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's their third date but their first time and Molly honestly can't tell if she initiated this or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be My TV

It doesn’t matter that she’s sitting in the middle of the bed. She still feels as though she’s been pushed up into a corner, against a wall, no way out. His grinning face seems the whole world as he drops all of his gentle demeanour in favour of something darker, head oscillating from side to side as he reaches up to pull at his collar, as though to loosen an invisible tie.

Once he kisses her, lays her back down on the sofa, she feels paralyzed. It’s hypnotizing, the way he moves, even when she can’t see it. He’s so cold, the tongue snaking into her mouth cold and the hands wandering up underneath her blouse cold, but there’s heat radiating from between his legs. She knows that he wants her and it’s terrifying and amazing at the same time so she reaches up to undress him and is pleasantly surprised when he goes to do the same for her.

When he slips his fingers into her knickers, her skin has warmed them up, but they still feel cold against her warm, excited inside. His touch is almost professional, like a doctor’s, except he’s naked but for his pants and the noises he makes would’ve given his arousal away even if she couldn’t see it. She gives in, spreads herself open, moans around him and tries to ignore the almost scientific precision with which he rubs her clitoris. At least he knows where it is; a clear improvement since last time she had sex.

He leaves her panting and desperate on the bed, spread open and ready, to go into the bathroom. She assumes he needs condoms, that it’s been a while, that he didn’t expect to take her home tonight and was unprepared, and she adores him for making the effort to go and get them rather than risk it. She hears him wash his hands too and doesn’t think twice about it, because she’s naked and he’s naked and a moment later he returns, condom on, asking her if she needs any additional lubrication.

Not a comment about her unshaven pubic hair and taking care to ask about her comfort - Jim is turning out to be really close to perfect in bed, and perfect in bed can do a lot for a girl’s lubrication systems. She just shakes her head no; no, she’s good the way she is. She’s good the way she is, and, as it turns out, he’s good the way he is too; more than good to go.

When he gets into bed and on top of her she rolls them over, likes it better that way, likes being on top, and he lets her without a single comment, only grabs the back of her head and pulls her down to kiss him. He kisses with as much careful concentration as he does everything else and while he isn’t spectacular at it, it certainly makes him better than average.

She sinks down on him slowly, gives herself time to adjust and to enjoy herself. Judging by his moans he doesn’t mind; in fact, judging by his moans, he loves to be given the time to appreciate the sensation as much as she does. Slowly she starts to move, still bent over him, her forehead resting against his shoulder. Some men won’t let her do this, want to see her instead, forces her into the discomfort of distance, but not Jim. Jim wraps his arms around her and holds her closer and kisses her neck and moans, moans, moans.

He comes quickly, before her, but not way before her thanks to their foreplay. Afterwards he reaches down before she even has the chance to roll off of him and finishes her off too, right through his own afterglow, at least as far as she can tell. She’s more than halfway in love with him already when her back finally hits the sheets and they smile silly smiles at each other, messy hand in messy hand. As she catches the light in his eye, there’s nothing for it.

“I love you,” she says, can’t help herself really, it just slips out.

“I love you,” he replies, smiling still, happy, at peace, and he looks as though he actually means it.

When Sherlock Holmes proclaims Jim gay the following day, Molly doesn’t know what to think. Was it ever real? The answer comes in the form of a single red rose lying on her kitchen table two weeks later, a slip of paper next to it saying, “If you promise to forget my face, I’ll forget yours.”


End file.
